First Times
by MystiqueGal98
Summary: A collection of moments between a nation and his heroine slight angst (unavoidable with these two, I'm afraid) but an overall happy hopeful sort of ending!


Hi there! Wrote this a little while back, but never really got round to publishing it, I'm afraid. Although I'll admit this isn't my otp of the fandom, I just felt this couple needed more love! Hope this isn't absolute crap ^^;; Enjoy~

(reviews would also be greatly appreciated .)

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_**The first time Francis hears about Jeanne, he is sceptical.**_

It is a dark and stormy night, in a crowded tavern somewhere in the south of France. Francis sits at his table alone, a tankard of ale in his hands. It is ale of the poorest quality, the kind made from left over barley. But times have been hard on everyone, so Francis gulps it down and does not complain.

He is eavesdropping, again. It is a habit he has picked up over the years as a nation. He has learned how hard it is to converse with ordinary people, so he takes to listening to their conversations instead, as if their words make up for his own silence.

Tonight, he has chosen to eavesdrop on the table next to his. A group of weary travellers, gathering to share and listen to stories and news they have learnt on their journeys. Their intense topic of discussion is…unusual to say the least. They are talking about a girl. But not just any girl. A young maiden from the East. They speak in hushed tones about her divine powers—she claims St Catherine, St Michael and St Margaret have spoken to her. And they have bestowed upon her the almighty task to drive away the English, and bring the Dauphin of Reims for his coronation. Some of the men snort in disbelief and call it nothing but frivolous gossip, others seem to full heartedly believe in her celestial powers. But there is one thing Francis can sense coming from all of them, even the most cynical ones—the faintest pulse of hope. Hope, that this girl may be what they've been waiting for all this while. Hope, that she can be the one to end all this madness and suffering and pain. And even if they are placing all their hopes in a little peasant girl, no more than a child, from some godforsaken village, it is still better than no hope at all.

Francis stops eavesdropping at this point. He tells himself it is but another of countless frauds out for wealth and fame, and he would be a fool not to recognize it. But all the same, there is the most undeniable flicker of hope ignited in his heart, and try as he might, he cannot extinguish it.

The very next morning, Francis sets off from the tavern, heading towards the East.

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_**The first time Francis met Jeanne, he could have sworn she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.**_

Francis ambles down the well-worn dirt path with a long, easy stride, whistling a little tune. The day is beautiful, almost unreal. The skies are stunningly blue, with feathery white clouds drifting lazily overhead. There is a refreshing zephyr lightly rustling the emerald tree leaves and the sun beams down and warms Francis' face. It is at times like these that Francis can escape, just for a little while, and lose himself in the joy of nature's simplicity. He has come to the little town of Domremy, where Jeanne is supposed to live. Jeanne D'Arc. That was the name those travellers at the tavern had spoken in such awe, and now that name has spread all around the country like a wildfire.

He stops by briefly at a farm to ask for directions from a pretty milk maid, and she giggles and blushes when he gives her a charming smile in greeting.

"You'll find her under the old oak tree, bit further down this lane. Probably telling the children stories—can't miss her with a whole crowd of little ones around her." she tells him.

He thanks her and continues on his way, but not before giving a playful wink that has her cheeks bright red again.

He spots Jeanne soon enough. She is sitting at the base of a gnarled oak tree, a ring of young children around her. Her expressions are animated and her hands move wildly as she tells her tale, leaving the children enraptured. They give out little squeals of delight and coo in wonder as she weaves the story, and the sight of their faces warms Francis' heart. They are all so very young, and so innocent. They have not yet seen the world, and sometimes Francis wishes children could stay naïve and happy like that forever.

He has no desire to interrupt Jeanne's story-telling session, so he leans against a tree trunk and observes them instead, waiting for her to finish. She seems nothing more than an ordinary peasant girl; her waist long flaxen hair has been braided down her back, and she wears a faded green smock.

Then suddenly, as if sensing his presence, Jeanne looks up. And for a moment Francis feels his breath leave him. Her eyes…they are mesmerising. They are a bright, sharp green, the colour of leaves when sunlight filters through them. In those eyes alone Francis sees wit and intelligence, bravery and strength, and a tender kindness he sometimes feels the world so lacks. He cannot quite explain it, but the moment he looked at those eyes he suddenly knew, deep in his bones, that this girl was going to be something special. This girl was going to be something _great_.

Now those green eyes are trained on him with an air of puzzlement. She seems to consider him for a moment before tilting her head in a way that asks "Are you looking for me?" He gives a slight nod, and Jeanne signals for him to wait. She wraps up her story quickly and gently shooes the children away, despite their pleas and groans of protest for her to continue. When the last child has scurried off, Francis approaches her.

"Good afternoon, my lady," He bows low and places a light kiss on her hand. There is no flirtatiousness in this gesture; rather it is one of genuine respect and admiration.

"Please, good sir, your manners put me to shame!" she laughs and gives Francis an exaggerated curtsey that makes him chuckle.

She straightens and gives him a small smile. "Really, though, I am but a peasant girl. I am not worthy of such titles or treatment," and there is something about her humility and warmth that puts Francis at ease immediately.

"What is it you wish to seek me for?"

"I have some important matters I would like to discuss with you. In private." He gives her pointed look.

She raises an eyebrow quizzically but accedes and leads them to a small barn.

"So…what is it you wish to discuss with me?"

Francis takes a deep breath and begins. And there, in the little barn in the little village of Domremy, amongst the bales of hay and cows chewing cud, Francis reveals his deepest, darkest secrets to a girl he has known for merely five minutes. He tells her his true identity as a country, as _her_ country, of how he wishes to help her in her quest. He warns her it will not be easy, that it will be dangerous and painful and she might never return. She simply listens intently, perched on an upturned milking bucket, brows furrowed in concentration. Francis knows what he's doing is foolish and reckless. He knows next to nothing about this girl, hasn't even gotten proof that she's not just a liar, but already he trusts her so much he feels he can tell her anything. It is frightening, this feeling. It is _liberating_.

When he is finally done, a heavy silence hangs in the air. Jeanne steeples her fingers and appears lost in thought. Francis does not blame her—it _is_ a lot to absorb. But the silence is broken, most unexpectedly, by a _laugh_. Jeanne lets out a loud peal of laughter, followed by several more. Francis stares at her in amazement and wonders if she's gone mad. When her laughter has subsided, she wipes the tears from her eyes and grins at him cheerfully.

"This is too good to be true!"

"I…what?"

"I almost couldn't believe it, when you told me you wanted to help me. I mean, everyone I've asked has tried to dissuade me, or refused me outright. And then suddenly you appear, a complete stranger, willingly aiding me! Though, I suppose you can't be a complete stranger, if you are the country I've lived in all my life."

Francis is speechless. Had he been mistaken about her? She must be an utter fool. Did she not hear a word of what he said about the perils they would face?

"Are you not…afraid?"

At this Jeanne's expression grows solemn. "I have never been more terrified in my life," she admits "But this is the task I have been given. And I _will_ carry it out and go through with it, to the death."

The last word echoes in Francis' mind ominously. "Very well," he says "I will return in about a week's time. Be ready to depart by then." He turns to leave but is stopped by Jeanne's voice. "Wait! What is your name? Your real name I mean, because I can't go around calling you France, can I?"

Francis has used countless aliases throughout his life; it would be nothing to make up another one now. But he surprises himself and the words roll off his tongue before he can stop them.

"Francis. Francis Bonnefoy."

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_**The first time Francis sees Jeanne in disguise, he thinks she is the worst boy he has ever seen.**_

Francis looks up at the position of the sun in the sky and gives a small tut of impatience. '_Women,_' he thinks '_always taking forever to get ready,'_ He is waiting for Jeanne in the front yard of her house. It is time for them to begin their journey. There is a knot of anxiety in Francis' stomach, for even nations cannot foresee the future, and he has no idea what this entire quest might mean, what it might lead to. He knows he is taking an enormous risk, diving head first into the unknown.

Just then, the front door finally swings open and Jeanne steps out.

Francis had suggested she disguise herself as a boy on this journey, because these were dangerous times in France for a young woman travelling so far from home.

But now it seems his advice was useless, because Jeanne still looks absolutely and completely like a girl. The way she holds herself is undeniably feminine, and even though her hair is now cropped short, it curls slightly and gives her a rather impish charm. And of course, those expressive eyes of hers, vivid and alive as ever, give her away immediately. On one hand Francis feels like bashing his head against a tree in despair because he is sure she'll be found out before they even leave the village, on the other hand he can't help but think she looks more beautiful than ever.

"Well, how do I look?" she grins at him.

And that grin, so full of hope and determination, reassures Francis that he is doing the right thing. And he thinks that this leap of faith he's about to take, no matter how big, is completely worth it if it is for Jeanne.

So he simply tells her, with a completely straight face "You are the worst boy I have ever seen."

Jeanne just punches him playfully on the arm.

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_**The first time Jeanne kills someone, Francis is there for her. **_

The night is no longer young by the time the battle-weary soldiers arrive back at camp. They are caked in mud and dirt, bloody, bruised, and hurt in more ways than one. Only the sound of clanking metal and the clip clop of horses hooves can be heard as the soldiers wordlessly return to their tents, ready for a sleepless night trying to purge their mind of the horrific memories. Not one of them glances back to see the red of a blazing fire in the distance, and the plumes of smoke that rise into the night sky.

Francis is in more or less the same numb state as he stumbles back to his own tent. Mechanically, he ties up his horse, washes up and changes into his nightclothes. Then he crawls into his bedroll and prepares himself for a long night.

He has been through so many wars and battles; you'd think he'd have gotten over it by now. But he hasn't, not really, and doubts he ever truly will.

It is always the same. The smell of blood and fear and death, of sweat and adrenaline. The sound of battle cries, hysterical screams and the pounding of your own terrified heart. Seeing the chaos and gore and madness engulf you. It never changes.

The night just after is always the worst, of course. It is when the memories are the freshest, when the wounds hurt the most, when the pain of loss is most stinging. And in the darkness of night, there is nothing but your memories to keep you company.

Francis lies still in his bedroll, reliving the battle right before his eyes. He sees the flaming buildings, smells the acrid odour of smoke that blocks his nose and makes his eyes water…

Then suddenly, a figure enters his tent, holding a candle.

His first instinct is to grab the dagger from under his pillow, but on closer inspection the silhouette is familiar.

"…Francis? Are you awake?" asks a small voice.

Francis lets out a breath of relief; it is Jeanne.

"Yes, I am awake," he replies, propping himself up.

"Oh!" Jeanne steps back in surprise, as if she had not expected him to really be up.

He notices her too wide eyes and too pale complexion and his eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Are you alright?"

She jumps back again, nervously. "What? Oh no, no I'm just fine! I mean, I was just um, wondering if—" Jeanne is a terrible liar.

"Are you alright?" he repeats, gentler this time.

Jeanne stops babbling abruptly, then bites her lips and shakes her head stiffly.

Francis recognises that look, and his heart clenches with grief and sympathy. It is the exact same look he had when he killed his first man.

"You can tell me," he says softly.

Jeanne freezes and hesitates for a moment, before promptly bursting into tears. When Francis spreads his arms, she runs into them without a second thought.

"I…I was so s-scared, Francis. He…he was charging straight towards me and I didn't know what to do! I-I panicked and swung my sword at him but then he was…he was…"

Her words are rushed and tumble over one another in between sobs. Francis simply holds her closer and strokes her hair in the most reassuring way he can.

"H-his _eyes,_ Francis. They were just…_blank,_ and…and…oh my God, I've killed a man, Francis! I've killed somebody! I…I…" her voice is bordering on hysterical now.

"Shh…it's alright, just let it all out, let it all out…"

He hugs her tight and rocks back and forth comfortingly as she continues to weep into his shoulder.

Jeanne is no longer an innocent village girl; she has been stained with the blood of another, and it will not be the last time. It hurts both of them, deeply. But they do not speak of it, preferring to find silent solace in each other's arms. Jeanne will not be the same after today. She will be scarred and tainted by war. But Francis knows she will come out all the better for it, because he knows Jeanne is stronger than that.

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_**The first time he realises he might love Jeanne.**_

Falling in love is a strange thing, Francis learnt. At first it is gradual, then all at once. And it can occur at the oddest places.

They are in the middle of a war council.

Jeanne stands at the head of the table, in the midst of a heated argument with the council. Her eyes are alight with passion and she stands firm and determined. It is at times like these, seeing Jeanne in her element that Francis cannot help but be astonished by her yet again. Astonished by how strong one little person can be.

Already in these few months alone, Francis has learnt far more than he ever thought there could be to Jeanne. He has seen her as a charismatic leader, a fearless soldier, an intelligent strategist, a frightened girl. There are so many facets to her, and Francis feels he would gladly spend the rest of his life trying to learn them all. And it is there, sitting at the council, watching this bold, golden lioness, that Francis realises the feeling blooming in his chest is more than just ordinary respect or admiration.

But he chooses to bury his love deep in the darkest fathoms of his heart, hidden from the rest of the world. Because this is neither the time nor the place, not a complication they can deal with right now. They are at war, and in these times of blood and hate, there is no place for love.

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_**The first time Francis thinks Jeanne might love him back.**_

They stroll by Jeanne's "thinking lake" as she calls it. They had discovered it shortly after they first arrived, in the woods a mile or two away from the camp. It soon became one of their favourite haunts. It had a good location—nearby enough, but secluded enough to let them get away and relax for a bit. Jeanne also liked to go there when thinking up battle plans. She said the tranquillity helped her clear her mind.

And looking at the little "thinking lake" on this day, it is not hard to see why. A canopy of boughs and branches hang overhead, shading them from the hot afternoon sun. Sunlight streams through gaps in the canopy, forming little pools of gold on the grass. The air is still, and the lake's surface is perfectly calm and smooth as a mirror. Francis spots red and blue dragonflies darting by, and hears the occasional sweet tune of a bird calling from the woods. He feels a wave of serenity and contentment wash over him.

He turns to look at Jeanne walking beside him. Her head is bowed and she frowns slightly, a sign that she is lost in thought. Francis doesn't mind the lack of conversation.

They continue to stroll at a leisurely pace, walking in companionable silence. Occasionally their hands or fingers brush ever so slightly, but neither pulls away. Then, all of a sudden, Francis feels Jeanne slip her hand into his. He looks up abruptly, startled. But Jeanne's brows are still knitted in concentration. She appears to have done this subconsciously, without thinking about it.

Francis decided he rather the likes the warmth of her hand in his, and makes no effort to pull away. Neither does he make an effort to suppress the silly grin growing on his face.

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_**The first time they kiss, is, unexpectedly, initiated by Jeanne.**_

It is one of their rare "days off" and Francis intends to savour every minute of it. They rest under a large tree, in the middle of a meadow. The afternoon is golden and glorious; the long grass swishes all around them like a sea of green, dotted with the bright colours of wild flowers.

Francis leans comfortably against the tree trunk, eyes gazing somewhere far off in the distance. He seems to be lost in a world of his own, but every once in a while he sneaks a sideway glance at Jeanne.

Jeanne makes a contradictory sight; dressed in full battle regalia, yet sitting cross legged like a child while nimble fingers thread together a flower chain. It is the most childish thing Francis has ever seen her done, Francis realises belatedly, and the feeling is followed by a stab of guilt. No, he should not be surprised. She is still a girl after all; this was what girls her age were supposed to do. Little, unimportant things, like daydreaming or cloud watching or threading flower chains. Francis wonders if that was how Jeanne had lived, before he came along.

"There, all done!" Jeanne chirps, breaking Francis out of his reverie. She holds up the flower crown with her hands and inspects her creation. Seemingly satisfied with her work, Jeanne turns to Francis and beams.

"Come a little closer!"

Francis obeys, shuffling nearer. He wonders what Jeanne is up to when suddenly he feels a light weight resting on his head. Instinctively, his hand reaches up, only to be met with the velvety smoothness of flower petals.

"Don't touch it—you'll crumple the flowers!" Jeanne chides, playfully swatting away Francis' arm.

"Why, deepest apologies, milady," Francis jokes good-naturedly back. He rises (with great care not to let the flower crown drop) and proceeds to strut around the tree, puffed and proud as a peacock, nose in the air. Jeanne laughs and laughs at his display, till tears of mirth are running down her face.

"Oh stop it you!" she laughs "Look; now your crown is all lopsided!"

She reaches forward to adjust it and leans in close. Too close. All of a sudden everything around Francis seems to intensify by tenfold. The gold of her hair shines, the pink of her cheeks seem rosier. The touch of her fingers is light on his head, her breath warm as it ghosts across his face. The smell of her envelops him, the smell of earth and flowers and sunshine. The sound of his terrified, wildly fluttering heart resounds in his ears.

Francis tries to get a grip on himself but by then it is too late. Jeanne has noticed him. She looks at him with those soulful green eyes and Francis cannot help but stare straight back into them. They stay like that for a while, seemingly suspended in time. Neither is entirely sure what they are doing, what this is going to become. Each tries to read the others' feelings.

Jeanne's eyes are a mixture of trepidation, uncertainty, confusion and perhaps, a hint of hope. Hope, that this could be something more, that this could be something…beautiful.

Francis realises he feels the same way.

Then Jeanne leans forward and softly places her lips on his. The kiss is chaste and sweet and pure with a hint of anticipation of what is to come and lasts barely a second. But it is a second Francis will remember for all eternity.

Before Francis can register anything, Jeanne has sprinted off, the tips of her ears burning red in embarrassment.

Francis simply stands there, utterly flummoxed and blushing like a schoolboy who has had his first kiss.

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_**The first time Francis sees Jeanne really, truly afraid**_.

The tension in the great hall is palpable, almost smothering.

Jeanne seems the perfect picture of composure. Her face is blank and she holds herself confidently, betraying no sign of emotion.

Beneath the table her hand is trembling almost violently, and Francis can only grip it tightly.

The judge sits at his bench, high and imposing as he eyes them with disdain and contempt. His hooked nose and flowing, severe black robes remind Francis rather of a raven. '_How fitting'_ He thinks spitefully. '_The bird of death'._

With an imperious, booming voice, the Raven asks "Do you know you are in God's favour?"

Immediately, murmurs can be heard from all around the jury. Francis grits his teeth in fury and it takes his utmost control not to lunge out at the judge and strangle him. This is a trick question, and they all know it. Church doctrine claims no one can be truly sure of being in God's grace. If Jeanne says yes, she'd be convicting herself of heresy. But saying no would be confessing her guilt.

Jeanne remains unruffled. With a calm, measured voice, she answers "If I am not, may God put me there; and if I am, may God so keep me."

The jury is stunned into silence by her answer. Even the judge, for a flicker, appears to be rendered speechless.

Francis lets out a breath of relief he did not even realise he was holding.

He squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back.

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_**The first time Francis says I love you, is also the last time.**_

_No. No no no no NO!_

Francis watches helplessly as Jeanne is led to the stake.

She has shrunken to a bare husk of her former self. Her face is pinched and sallow, her hair caked with dirt and matted with blood. Her eyes are the only sign she is still alive, and they tell an infinity of pain and grief and unspeakable hurt. Francis' heart seizes in his chest and clenches sickeningly. He himself has been kept starving in the dungeons but his fit of fury gives him the last surge of strength to free himself from the two burly guards who have been holding him back. He dashes ahead before they can catch him and wraps his arms around Jeanne in one last embrace.

There are so, so many things on the tip of his tongue. Apologies and 'thank you's , and so much more that he has wanted to tell her all this while. How blessed he felt just waking up every day by her side, the indescribable joy just watching her. But time is not on their side so he chooses the two simple words he knows he will never forgive himself for if he does not tell her.

"Je t'aime,"

She gives out a funny rasp that sounds vaguely like laughter.

"Moi aussi, je'taime," she whispers tenderly in reply, vivid, brilliant green eyes boring into his.

There is no hatred in her eyes, no anger, no resentment. Despite everything he has done, she still does not blame him. Francis thinks it perhaps might have been easier if she did. Because nothing could possibly hurt him more than what he sees in her eyes now; unwavering love and a bitter sorrow knowing the end has come. But no trace of regret for doing all that she did, for following him.

But there is no time for any more, and the guards roughly pull them apart.

They haul her up onto the stake and set the wood on fire. But she refuses to scream, remaining stubbornly silent, unwilling to give them the cruel satisfaction they crave.

Francis stares and stares as long and bravely as he can before his vision is too marred by tears for him to see properly.

The last thing he sees is his beautiful, bold lioness engulfed in fiery red. Her eyes are closed, mouth set in a grim determined line. The flames spread behind her like blazing wings, and Francis is reminded of a fallen angel. _His _fallen angel.

Then the world goes dark, and Francis knows no more.

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**_Paris, March 30 1889_**

The first time Francis visits her grave is only many hundreds of years later.

Francis climbs up the hill, picnic hamper in one hand, a flower crown in the other. The day is bright and clear and fresh, the way spring days are. He takes his time, occasionally pausing to rest, absorbing the peaceful quiet of the graveyard.

People don't generally like graveyards. They call them morbid, eerie. Francis disagrees. There is certain tranquillity about them. Death never taints graveyards, lingering like an unwelcome shadow, as so many seem to think. Death is simply accepted here.

At last, Francis reaches the top of the hill. There is only a single gravestone, nestled in the shelter of a great elm tree. It is an unremarkable headstone, just a block of hard, dull granite. It bears none of the usual inscriptions found on gravestones; no name, no years indicating the lifespan, no poignant messages left by family and friends. There is only a single word; "Heroine".

There is genuine warmth in Francis' eyes as he kneels down in front of the gravestone. Careful hands brush away growing moss, lightly traces the words etched into the cold surface.

"Hello, my love" he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gently rests the flower crown atop the gravestone.

He has known about the place for years and years, but this is the first time he's ever come here. It's always been at the back of his mind, but he hasn't dared, all this while. He was too afraid, and it hurt too much, and he wasn't sure he could take it. But finally, _finally_, he is ready.

Francis sets out the picnic mat, unpacking the food from the wicker basket; a loaf of bread, some cheese, a few apples, a bottle of wine. The hill gives a fantastic view of Paris and he sits overlooking the city.

With the World Fair just around the corner, the atmosphere is festive. River cruises drift along the Seine, the roads are bustling with carriages and automobiles. Banners and posters are everywhere, announcing the upcoming event. Music pours out of every corner; big bands and street musicians and even a few orchestras. Then there are the people; chatting, laughing, singing, dancing. Their happy voices float up from below and tug at Francis' heartstrings. And towering above them all, dominating the city's skyline is an enormous lattice structure wrought of iron. The Eiffel Tower. A controversial project, to say the least. Many had protested in outrage at its construction, calling it monstrous, barbaric.

Francis rather likes it. He has a feeling Jeanne would too. But it's only going to be here for twenty years, anyway.

Francis takes a sip of wine and gives a sigh of content. He has worked very, very hard to get his country to be what it is today, so far from those bloody days of endless war he used to live in. His people are happy, he is happy. He thinks Jeanne would be happy too, and so proud, if she could see how much they've grown. This was what she had been fighting for after all.

Francis grins and raises his glass in a toast. "To France!" he laughs.

And in that moment he sees Jeanne sitting by his side, laughing with him.


End file.
